


Now That We're Free

by orphan_account



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-08-24 06:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16634534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Michael is back from Yemen and exonerated for all of his alleged crimes and now lives with his family--Sara, his wife, and his son Mike Jr. But after years of solitary imprisonment, torture, and trauma, will he ever really be free?





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and comments!!! I know there aren't a whole lot of us who still watch Prison Break and some people don't like the new season, but personally I'm obsessed (seen every episode of every season) and can't wait for Season 6! Until then, I'll have to write my own version (though, course, I don't own PB and had no part in it's creation)! Fyi this might be really triggering if you have issues with violent trauma or depiction of suicide attempts. I won't be talking about sexual trauma or rape bc I don't feel it's necessary or supports my plot but there's still a lot of mentions of physical violence so proceed with caution. I will also say it starts out really serious/depressing but it WILL get better, I promise.

It was over. No more conspiracies. No more prisons. No more escaping. Michael was alive and home, and their family was safe. They were finally free. 

But Sara couldn’t help but worry about Michael. Sure, he was still handsome, selflessly kind and the best father little Mike could wish for, but something about him seemed…off. As much as she wished to deny it, Ogygia had broken him.

He ate very little and remained too thin. He tossed and turned in bed, flinching when Sara touched him ever so gently. And when he slept, he experienced night terrors. 

Please stop, I didn’t do it!, he would scream audibly. You’re hurting me! Get away from me! 

When Sara woke him from these nightmares, he cried and shook, as if he were ashamed of the trauma he had experienced. As if it were his fault. 

“Do you want to talk?” she would whisper softly, her gaze tracing his bare torso. His back, chest, and ribs were covered with thick white lines—scars, likely from being lashed and cut with knives. 

He would shake his head and reach over to turn off the lamp. And the night would drag on, Michael sleepless once again. 

There were moments, too, when his personality seemed to shift. The soft, sweet Michael she knew would become loud and angry. She recalled one night where she had asked Michael, who was sitting on their bed intently reading a novel, to read little Mike a bedtime story. 

“You interrupted my story!” he yelled, violently slamming the book onto the floor, so hard that the book ripped and pages flew out and floated around it. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll read him one myself. He just really likes the way you read to him,” she replied gently. 

He then turned apologetic and self-hating, going on about how he was so sorry and was a terrible father and yes, of course, he would read to Mike. 

These instances happened frequently. Five times a week, maybe once a day, Michael would become angry. It didn’t make Sara love him any less, she was just…concerned. 

Today was one of those days. 

“Michael, I made you pancakes,” she said as he walked into the kitchen from the bedroom. 

Despite the dark circles beneath his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks, he was so adorable and kissable and Sara was grateful he was hers. “Thanks, I’m not super hungry. I’ll have a bight if you insist.” He approached her and wrapped his arms around her slim waist, lightly pecking her cheek. 

Sara flipped a pancake onto his plate and passed it over to him. “Please eat the whole thing, you really could use it.”

He smashed the plate on the ground, pancake and all, the white ceramic blasting into shards all over the floor. “Don’t tell me what to do!” he shouted. 

Mike tiptoed into the kitchen, his big eyes peaking out under a mop of short brown hair. “Daddy, are you okay?” he asked.

Michael’s cheeks flushed as he sadly mumbled, “Yeah, I just dropped a plate on accident. Be carefully buddy, watch your step, okay?” Michael walked up to his son and planted a kiss upon his head. 

“Michael,” Sara said. “I’ll clean this up and grab Mikey some breakfast. Why don’t you get yourself dressed.” 

Michael stumbled into the bathroom, closing the door firmly and locking it behind him. 

Mike and Sara ate their breakfast together leisurely, talking and playing for almost an hour—it was a Sunday, after all, and Mike had no school—before Mike left to go to the bathroom. 

Little Mike approached the bathroom door and turned the handle to open it. It was locked. Is daddy still in there? he thought. 

“Daddy!” he shouted as he knocked. No reply. 

Using the creative genius that he inherited from his father, Mike ran into his parents’ bedroom and picked up a bobby pin from Sara’s nightstand. He twisted the pin into the little hole on the bathroom door and busted open the lock. 

He couldn’t believe what he saw when he opened the door. “Mommy!” he screamed in horror. “Call 9-1-1!”

Sara grabbed the phone and ran to the bathroom, gasping as tears welled up in her eyes. Michael’s pale, slender form lay limp in the bathtub which was filled with murky, red water. Blood drained from a long, wide laceration down his left wrist, and a razor lied on the side of the tub. 

She made the call quick, before kneeling down next to his unconscious, bleeding body. She put her right index and middle fingers to his neck. Please let him be alive. Please.

And, thank god, she felt a pulse. It was slow and very weak, but he was alive.


	2. Safe But Not Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, thank you to everybody who's been reading so far!! I'll try to update this fairly consistently, so expect more soon!

Sara stared as Michael lay on the emergency room bed, his body tucked under a blanket from the waist down with a colorless hand resting on top, an IV line sticking out. His pulse was now slow but steady, and although he was still unconscious, she caught glimpses of his eyelids fluttering as if they were almost ready to open, but couldn’t quite find the strength. 

She wished she could be alone with him and hold his other hand, which hung lifelessly from his left side off the bed, thick layers of bandages coating the wrist area above it. But she felt so awkward touching him under the supervision of the ER nurse who was assigned to watch him, making sure that when he woke up he wouldn’t try to hurt himself. 

“I’m a doctor, and I know Michael better than anyone, believe me, I’ve got him taken care of,” Sara told her.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Scofield, it’s protocol,” the nurse replied. 

Sara imagined what Michael would feel once he woke. Shame? Disappointment? Relief? She thought back to her overdose years ago, remembering how scared she had been when she had opened her eyes and scanned her hospital bedroom. She had been embarrassed and mortified, yet grateful to have survived. 

But this was different. Michael had wanted to die. Or, at least, that’s what he said in the note he had left on the bathroom sink, telling her and little Mikey that he was in too much pain to go on. 

“Mm…m’I alive?” Michael groaned as his eyelids popped open, revealing his weary but nevertheless mesmerizing blue eyes. 

Sara knelt beside his bed and took his free hand, clasping it tightly. “Yes, Michael, thank god.” 

Michael broke into a hysterical fit of tears, saying “I’m sorry, Sara, I’m sorry” over and over again, like a broken record. 

“It’s okay, Michael,” she whispered calmly, stroking his soft, tender skin. “I know you didn’t do it to hurt me.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not sorry for doing it,” he said, pausing. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

“Stop, Michael!” Sara said firmly. 

But he continued. “You don’t want me around anymore, I know it. Even if you think you love me and you think you want me here, trust me, you don’t. Think about it, your life was easier when you knew I was dead, wasn’t it? You had our son and your friends and when you found out I was alive you became burdened. That’s what I am to you, Sara, I’m a burden. It’s not fair for you to have to take care of me. You say you want me, but I know you don’t really.”

She thought carefully about his words. She couldn’t argue with the notion that her and little Mike’s lives had been easier when Michael was supposedly dead. It was much simpler to explain to her toddler son that his father was deceased than to explain that his father was emotionally unstable. 

But their lives had been empty in many ways when Michael was gone. It broke Sara’s heart to think that Mike Jr. would never know his father, would never see the beauty that had created him. And Sara missed Michael every day, longed for his sleeping form beside her when she went to bed at night, her body starved both sexually and emotionally of his tenderness and touch. 

“Michael, you have no idea what those years without you were like,” she said sternly, her voice shaking. “You have no idea what it was like to have to explain to Mikey’s teachers that his father was no longer alive, or answer Mikey’s questions about you. I heard the longing in his voice, Michael, for all of those years it pained him so much knowing he would never get to meet you. And to think that you would finally walk into his life just to be gone again? That, Michael, is the worst nightmare he could imagine.” She took a sharp inhale as Michael studied her face. 

He didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know how to think or feel or talk anymore, he just stared at his wife blankly, tears rolling down his face. 

The door swung open and a tall, slim man with cropped black hair walked in with a clipboard. “Hi, are you Mrs. Scofield?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” Sara replied softly.

“Great, I’m Sean, I’m a social worker here to chat with your husband. If you could give us a few moments of privacy I need to do an assessment on the patient.” 

She hated how he referred to him as “the patient”, but she compliantly exited the room, plopping herself down on a chair in the hallway. 

She sat nervously for about half an hour before Sean stepped out into the hallway.   
“Mrs. Scofield, I have an update to share with you.”

Sara looked up at him anxiously.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but it seems that Michael is experiencing symptoms of severe post-traumatic stress. From my conversation with him I feel that he’s still at serious risk for harming himself, so he’s being sectioned to stay in the IPU until we feel he’s safe to go home.”

She didn’t reply, just looked at him with concern and confusion. 

“It’s, uh, the Inpatient Psychiatric Unit. While he’s there we’ll do some more evaluation and diagnostics and stabilize him with medication if necessary, and hopefully he’ll be ready to leave within the next couple weeks.”

“Um…okay,” Sara replied softly. She didn’t want to leave him, and she didn’t know if she would sleep that night. What would she tell Mikey? That his father was alive but still wanting to die, and so they had to take him to the psych ward? 

But she knew Michael wasn’t fit to go home, and that Sean and the hospital staff just wanted the best for him. Mikey was a smart, good kid; he would handle it as well as anyone with a suicidal parent could. 

For the first time in years, Sara put her hands together and prayed.


	3. Locked Up Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This brief chapter gives a glimpse of what Michael's going through after his attempt/in the hospital...but, obviously, Michael isn't the only one hurting. Sara, Michael Jr. and Lincoln have been through their own traumas, including that of having to deal with a mentally unstable Michael. Stay tuned for more on them in the next chapter.

It was the first time Michael had been locked up since Ogygia. 

The nurses tried to assure him that he wasn’t being punished, that rather he was sick and needed help. 

But he felt trapped. He was confined to a wheelchair until the medical staff were confident he would be able to stand and walk without fainting, as his body was still weak from the blood loss. And just like in prison, he had been given a new set of clothes to identify him as a “patient”—pale green scrubs. He kept his dirty white sneakers but the laces had been removed because they were “a threat to his safety”. 

The hospital decided when and what he should eat, what time he would wake and go to bed, and had his whole schedule planned for each day. Wake up at 8, Breakfast at 8:30, group at 9, lunch at 11, art therapy at noon, and therapy/psych appointments to fill the afternoons. 

Staff members deemed Michael a “difficult case”, as he barely ate and hardly ever talked. Never in group, and in sessions with his psychiatrist, he would bury his head under his arms and between his knees and cry, his entire body shaking violently. 

From the few sentences Michael had managed to get out, his treatment team had gathered that he had been severely beaten and tortured during his time overseas—locked alone in a dark room, burned with hot metal on his flesh, starved, whipped, stabbed, and nearly drowned—and they confidently diagnosed him with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

They gave him sedatives to help him sleep and curb the flashbacks and had offered a variety of other medications, but Michael refused to take them.  
A week later he was out of the wheelchair and walking steadily, but had lost weight from his already frail frame and certainly didn’t appear well rested. 

“You have a visitor, Michael,” a nurse said to him one day. 

He was both excited and angry that Sara had finally come to see him. He still loved her dearly and missed her every day, but he wondered why she hadn’t come to visit him so far. And then he would remind himself that it was his fault, that he was a horrible father and husband and her life was probably better with him locked away once again. 

“Michael,” Sara said, reaching up to wrap her arms around his narrow shoulders as they sat down together on the couch in the visiting room. “You smell really good,” she said, breathing him in as she rested her head in the curve of his neck. 

“They finally let me shower today,” Michael admitted. “Still no razors though.”

Sara ran the back of her hand across the light patches of stubble on his face. God, he was sexy, she thought. It puzzled her how Michael could look so fragile and worn down yet so youthful and handsome at the same time. It was hard to believe he was a day over forty. 

“I’ve missed you. And I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. This past week has been really hard, and Mike really needed me there,” she said.

Michael held her tightly before letting go, tears rolling down from his bloodshot eyes. “He didn’t want to come?” He asked solemnly.

“No, he did,” Sara replied softly. “I just…I wanted to see what condition you were in before I let him come see you. He’s with Lincoln right now, I think they’re having a good time.” 

Michael smiled thinking of his brother, knowing he was probably a better father figure to Mikey that Michael would ever be. Michael wasn’t upset that Sara hadn’t let Mikey come visit, because he understood. 

“He wanted me to give this to you,” Sara said, pulling a sheet of paper from her purse. “It’s something he drew at school.”

Michael took the paper in his hand and examined it carefully, a hint of a smile forming on his face. It was a picture of two stick figures—a father and son—holding hands with “To the best daddy ever”. 

“Tell him I love him more than he could know,” Michael said.


	4. An Empty Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read my fic! I really enjoy writing in amidst my busy life, and I'm trying to keep up the chapter-per-day rate. Next week is Thanksgiving and I've got plans with the fam so I might not be able to do every day, but I've got pretty much the whole plot set in my mind so I'm writing pretty fast at this rate, so, who knows.

With Michael away at the hospital, the Scofield house felt empty. Emptier than when Michael was “dead”. 

Sara wanted to believe that Michael was safer under the supervision of medical professionals, but not being able to see him brought up so many worries. Sometimes she felt that she could take care of him better than anyone else—she was, after all, a medical professional herself—but then she would remind herself that she had already failed him. It was under her roof that he had tried to take his own life and almost succeeded. 

Every day, she wanted to drink or get high. She had been through her own trauma in her lifetime—the murder of her father, the terror she experienced being kidnapped while Michael was in Sona, the death of a child being hit by a car in front of her own eyes during her using days—but years of therapy and distance had helped her accept and move on from the past. 

But the image of Michael’s near-dead body covered in blood, lying limply in the bathtub among murky red water—it haunted her every night. 

She knew, however, that she couldn’t afford to relapse. Not with little Mike around. She needed to be there for him, after all, he was hurting just as much as she was. He was the one who found his father in that state, who had saved him minutes away from death. No child should have to see something like that, she thought. But who was to blame? Certainly not Michael, as she knew the pain he battled was uncontrollable. 

Dammit, she blamed whoever it was that had hurt him. She wanted to kill those bastards. But there was no use in dwelling, as his perpetrators were long gone now, faceless and nameless and far overseas. 

Nearly every night little Mike would come into Sara’s bedroom. “I can’t sleep,” he would say. “Nightmares.”

As her precious child crawled into her king-sized bed, his small arms hugging her waist, it pained her to imagine what those nightmares could be. It was normal for kids of his age to come to their mothers when they had trouble sleeping, but she knew these weren’t typical nightmares he was talking about. 

Little Mike’s dreams conjured images of his father Michael, dead and covered in blood. He had a reoccurring one where he fell asleep next to his dad and then would wake up to find Michael lifeless next to him, blood pouring from one of his wrists and soaking the bedsheets. 

Mike’s school teachers reported to Sara that they were worried about him, and that he had gone nearly mute in the classrooms and sat alone at recess. Sara told them that there was a family emergency and that it’s understandable he might be going through a tough time at school, but didn’t feel so reassured herself. 

“When is dad coming home?” Mike would ask every night.

“Soon,” Sara would tell him. But she never made promises or gave specific estimates of time, because she was afraid she would let her son down.

Mike knew it wasn’t a good answer, and that Sara herself had no clue when Michael would prove to the hospital that he was fit to come home, but he also knew there was nothing he could do. 

“Did you give him my picture?” Mike asked when Sara returned from the hospital.

“Yes, I did,” Sara said, smiling. “He loved it.”

“Is he doing okay? Can I visit him?”

“He’s…getting better,” Sara replied, recalling his pale, underweight, but otherwise slightly livelier state. “I think he would really like to see you.”

The next day Sara took her son with her to visit Michael in the hospital. 

“Daddy!” Mike said excitedly as his father walked into the visiting room, a large smile forming on Michael’s face. 

“Mikey!” Michael said, leaning down so little Mike could jump up and grab him. Michael wanted to pick his son up and hold him but he knew he was probably too weak. Besides, Mike was almost 8 years old now, and was growing healthily. 

“I really miss you, daddy,” Mike told him, crying while he spoke. “And I want you to come home. But…when you’re ready. Please get better.” 

Michael could tell by the sorrowful look on his son’s face that little Mike had an understanding of his circumstances that far surpassed most boys his age. Emotionally, he was growing up too fast, seeing things no child should see. A victim of childhood abuse and a former foster kid, Michael knew all too well what it was like to grow up too fast. 

“I’m getting better,” Michael told his son, almost believing the words. “I promise, I’m trying.”


	5. Home, With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's got a lot of fluff and...yes, sex :) . I wasn't quite sure how to rate this fic because I can't remember what constitutes "mature" and what's "explicit". There's gonna be a good deal of sex in this fic and possibly some strong language, but my descriptions of sex are more steamy and romantic so there won't be any super graphic details or super kinky stuff. Like if this were a movie it would maybe be PG-13, although with the violence it's bordering on R...idk...i don't think any children are reading this so I'm probably fine lol. Hope you're still enjoying this, thank you for reading, and more is always coming!

About a week later, Sara received a call asking her to visit the hospital. It was Michael’s therapist, Dr. Adam Parsons, who wanted to Sara to come in and talk about something. He didn’t tell her what they would discuss, but he assured her that Michael was not in danger.

Sara waited in the lobby of the psychiatric wing until a short, bald man walked into the room, holding his hand out as he approached her. 

“I’m Dr. Parsons,” he said as they shook hands. “You must be Mrs. Scofield.”

“Please,” Sara said. “Call me Sara.” 

They made their way through the locked double doors to his office. Sara feared that Michael might see her there and wonder what she could possibly be talking with his therapist about, but she reassured herself that patient confidentiality laws would protect him from any unwanted gossip. 

“How’s Michael?” Sara asked as she sat down in the chair opposite Dr. Parson’s desk.

“He’s doing fine,” Dr. Parson’s said matter-of-factly. “Actually, we’re discharging him on Friday.” 

This was great news, as it was already Wednesday. Two more days, and Michael would be home. 

“I didn’t bring you in here to talk about Michael.”

“No?” Sara replied, puzzled. 

“I know this type of event doesn’t just affect the patient. I you and your child have been suffering a great deal since Michael’s attempt, and I’m worried you’re not getting the support you need.” Dr. Parsons handed Sara a printed note with lists of names, descriptions, and phone numbers. 

“What’s this?” 

“It’s a list of therapists I’m recommending in the area. There’s a couple child and family specific options, and I threw in some trauma therapists too. For you, but, uh, also for Michael. He doesn’t seem too keen on the idea of continuing therapy after he leaves here, but I would encourage him to get some additional help. The transition back to home life can be tough and I just want to make sure you all are prepared.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Parsons,” Sara said, making eye contact as she pushed herself from the chair. “I think this will be really helpful.” 

“Great,” he replied. “Let me escort you out.” 

Two days passed quickly, and the time had come for Sara to pick up Michael from the hospital. 

He looked great, or at least his best since his attempt. Color was starting to return to his face, and his jaw and cheeks were smooth and freshly shaven. His clothes hung loosely from his undernourished body, but they were his own, as he had ditched the yellow-green scrubs from the hospital. His shoes even had their laces again. 

“Michael!” Sara shouted with joy, walking toward him quickly before wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. He rested his head on hers, hugging her back in a moment that he wished could never pass. Sara, too, wished she could hold him forever. 

“I love you so much Sara,” he said. “I’m so glad I can finally come home.” 

Sara nodded in agreement, too happy to say anything more, afraid tears might come out. 

They walked to the car and sat side by side inside of the vehicle quietly before Sara lifted her hands to Michael’s cheeks, pressing her lips against his. Michael leaned into the kiss, their tongues mingling as he reached his right hand down to unfasten his belt. 

Sara withdrew from the kiss abruptly and pushed Michael’s hand aside. “Not right now, Michael, we’re in a hospital parking lot!” 

“Oh, right,” he said blushing in embarrassment. 

Sara smiled. “You’re too adorable, Michael. Don’t worry, you’ll be back in my bed tonight, remember?” 

They drove home, where Michael reunited with his son, who was elated to see his daddy come home for good. Sara cooked little Mike’s favorite dinner—macaroni and cheese—and scooped a generous portion onto Michael’s plate. “You need to fatten up,” she told him. 

She was relieved that Michael didn’t argue and had worked up a healthy appetite, devouring the food before Sara was even halfway done. She offered him seconds, but he declined. 

“I ate too much already,” he said, Sara rolling her eyes from across the table. And you needed it, she thought. 

Michael tucked his son into bed that night, offering to read to Mikey, but little Mike was already reading Harry Potter by himself. What a smart kid his wife had raised, he thought to himself. 

He turned out the lights before walking back into his bedroom and climbing into bed with Sara.

With Michael laying nude beside her, Sara felt a sense of safety. Not that he was protecting her, but rather that she could hold him in his vulnerable state, and keep him safe from whatever inner demons he was at war with. 

Sara traced his side with her thumb, bumping over each rib and down the inward curve of his waist to his sharp hipbone. He felt so delicate, without an ounce of fat on his bones and just a bit of lean muscle, yet he was still stunningly beautiful. 

Michael cupped Sara’s warm breasts in his hands, admiring how her thin body was curved in all the best places. She guided his body beneath her own, letting him inside of her and savoring the feeling of him lying beneath her before she thrust her hips, his body moving in rhythm. She moaned as he panted, their heartbeats speeding up together, almost in synchrony. 

When she finished she lay soundly on top of him, and she wrapped her arms around him, breathing in his neck as her hands felt his bony shoulders. 

I’m home, Michael whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, but I'm trynna stay in the habit of updating every day!! Some fluff, mostly angst in this one

Sara worked as a doctor at a clinic during weekdays, so Lincoln stayed with Michael during the day time. At first Michael had been defensive about this so-called “baby sitting”, but he understood why Sara would fear for him to be home alone all day. 

He hated being lonely and he certainly wasn’t ready to find a job—not in his current emotional state—so having his brother over was nice. Lincoln worked odd jobs—construction mostly—intermittently, but when he wasn’t working, he was always with Michael. During the afternoons they would watch TV and Michael would have a beer and feel buzzed, and Lincoln would have two or three and feel nothing. 

Michael became a sort of “stay-at-home dad”, buying groceries, picking up Mike from school, and cleaning the house meticulously. His low latent inhibition and attentiveness to detail made him both an obsessive and effective cleaner, and although Lincoln was sometimes worried about Michael’s fascination with perfection, he observed that Michael seemed somewhat calmer when he was organizing and cleaning. 

Things weren’t perfect, Michael still seemed “off” and got angry randomly and weighed 130 pounds at most with his six-foot-one frame, but wan’t suicidal and he was finally sleeping now that he was taking sedatives every night. 

Sara would come home each night to a clean house and a prepared dinner and a loving husband who was eager to get under the covers with her before they slept. Even in his outbursts of anger—usually triggered by the smallest remarks, like about his eating or cleaning habits—he never exhibited violence towards Sara and certainly never Mikey. The anger did come across as violent, but more of a violence directed to himself. She worried about him in these moments. She worried he might hurt himself again. 

There were instances where his anger did almost cause danger. 

One night Lincoln noticed Michael seemed particularly wound up, and took him out to a bar. Lincoln ordered a rum and coke, and Michael ordered whiskey. Michael wasn't generally a big drinker, but he had a taste for whiskey. 

“Pour me another one, please,” Michael asked the bartender after downing his first.

Lincoln touched Michael’s arm and looked down at his own still half-full drink. “Slow down, buddy. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Michael nodded in acknowledgment but proceeded to lift the second glass to his lips. As he lifted the glass, his left arm lay flat on the bar surface, revealing a thick, raised pink scar from his wrist to his forearm. 

“You some kinda emo chick?” said a large, muscular man sitting next to Michael opposite Lincoln. 

Michael slammed down his glass and stood up and screamed, “Do NOT talk to me like that!” 

“Whoa, you wanna take this outside? Bet I could snap you’re skinny little girl arms with my bare hands.” the man replied, flexing his huge muscles.

Lincoln grabbed Michael by the shoulders, standing and guiding him towards the door. “Hey, sorry man, my brother’s had too much to drink,” he told the big man. 

“Brother, I thought that was your boyfriend?” The man laughed to himself as he raised his drink to his lips.

Lincoln didn’t respond and proceeded to lead Michael out the door. 

Michael broke into tears. “God, I’m so embarrassing,” he wailed. 

“No, you’re not Michael, you’re just drunk right now, let it go.” 

“You just tried to bring me out to have a good time and I had to ruin it,” Michael continued. “I’m so sorry, Linc. I’m so sorry.” 

Lincoln cursed himself for thinking giving Michael alcohol would improve his condition. Clearly it had just made him more angry, more impulsive, and more self hating. 

“Let’s get you home to Sara,” Lincoln said. “You just need to sober up and you’ll feel better tomorrow.” 

Would he? Lincoln had no idea.


	7. Small Dark Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy! Next chapter! I'm at the airport waiting for my flight and it doesn't board for 5 hrs so I was like, "guess I gotta write a new chapter"! Fyi it's gonna be kind of an angst fest for the next little while, but that was probably expected when you read the synopsis...

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sara asked when she woke beside a very drained and sad-looking Michael. She placed her palm on his bare lower back, gently painting circles on his skin. 

“No, it’s fine,” Michael said, pained by the thoughts of what might have happened were he to have engaged in a fight at the bar. 

“You know I’m just worried about you because I love you,” Sara told him gently. 

Michael nodded in acknowledgment, though not completely in belief. 

“I need you to do something for me today,” Sara continued nervously. 

“Mmmhmm?” Michael mumbled. 

“I’m gonna need to be at the clinic all day today and Mikey has therapy at 4—“

“Mikey’s in therapy?! Why didn’t you tell me this? He’s my son too!” 

“Michael, calm down, it’s not a big deal,” Sara said.

“No, I don’t fucking care if he’s in therapy, I mean good for him, but why didn’t you tell me?!” Michael’s face turned red with anger. “It’s because of me isn’t it? It’s because I fucked him up and now he needs fixing. What, are you in therapy too? I’m sure I fucked you up pretty good also—“

“Michael, STOP!”, Sara took a deep breath. “This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you would blame yourself, think it was your fault. It’s not your fault Michael. It’s not.”

Michael’s anger turned to sadness and suddenly appeared withdrawn, staring down blankly as tears welled up in his eyes. 

Sara put her hand on his back again. “You’re sick, Michael,” Sara told him. “Have you considered—“

“Going to therapy myself?” Michael knew what she was going to say. 

“Yes,” Sara said. 

“Yeah I thought about it,” Michael replied. “And I had enough of it in the hospital to last me years. Believe me that place was like ten years of therapy in three weeks. I don’t think I can do anymore, at least not anytime soon.”

“Okay,” Sara replied, knowing she shouldn’t force the subject, as Michael had now returned to a fairly calm state. “Just know that I’ll support you know matter what.”

“Thanks, honey,” Michael said, delicately kissing her plump lips. “And, yes, I’d be happy to take Mikey to his appointment.”   
Michael and his son were awkwardly quiet in the car on the way to the appointment, but when Mikey approached his father in the waiting room at the end, the little boy seemed full of life and excited to talk to his dad. 

“Daddy!” he shouted, hugging Michael’s long legs. “Guess what?!”

“What, Mikey?” Michael asked curiously. 

“Richard, my therapist, thinks you and I should spend more time together. Next Tuesday is bring your kid to work day and he thinks I should spend the day with you instead of going with Mom. I’ve been before, her work’s awfully boring since I’m not even allowed to be there when she meets with patients.” 

“That sounds great, what do you want to do?” 

“I wanna play laser tag!! I’ve never played before!!!”

“We can make that happen,” Michael said happily. “To be honest with you I’ve never played either. It’ll be both of our first times!” 

When Tuesday came around and Sara kissed her husband and son goodbye as she headed out to the clinic, little Mike was jumping up and down eagerly. 

“Laser tag! Laser tag!” He shouted. “Is Uncle Linc coming too?” 

Michael looked at Lincoln, who smiled back. “Okay, I guess I gotta come.” 

“It’ll be fun,” Michael said. 

The three of them climbed into the car as Michael drove to the Family Fun Center where they got ready to play a game of laser tag. 

Lincoln and young Mike admired their chunky laser guns, while Michael entered the dark space with a hint of excitement that was quickly overtaken by fear and panic. 

The darkness was swallowing him, the walls were closing in, and suddenly he was back alone in that tiny dark room in Ogygia, the sounds of guards’ heels stomping outside of his cell, whips waving in their hands, ready to come in and crack on his flesh. 

Lincoln heard Michael’s whimpering and put down his gun, rushing to Michael, who was curled up in a ball on the floor. Little Mike followed Lincoln. 

“Daddy, are you okay?” His son asked in horror. 

Michael was unresponsive, his head tucked between his knees.

“He’s okay,” said Lincoln. “He just needs a moment. Will you wait right here with him?” 

Mikey nodded.   
Lincoln ran out to a staff member and told her about Michael’s panic, and she shut down the game and turned the lights on above the laser maze. 

Michael lifted his head as the lights turned on, shaking and blinking repeatedly. “Ohmygod I’m so sorry Mikey, I’m so, so sorry. God, I embarrassed you, didn’t I? I ruined this—“

“Shh, shh, Daddy, it’s okay,” Mikey said to his father, walking over to hug his legs. “I love you, daddy.” 

It isn’t supposed to go like this, Michael thought. My son shouldn’t be the one having to tell me that I’m okay. 

“I love you too, Mikey,” was all Michael managed to say. 

“C’mon guys I think we’ve had enough for the day,” Lincoln told them. “Let’s go home.”


	8. A Rude Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy thanksgiving :)

Sara was worried. Lincoln was worried. Hell, even little Mike was worried. 

“Are you sure daddy is okay?” he would ask his mom.

“You don’t need to worry about him,” Sara tried to assure him. She wasn’t very convincing. 

Michael certainly didn’t appear to be getting much better. He was pale and sluggish from a lack of nutrition and mental draining. Sara imagined the thoughts that went through his genius, fast-paced brain every day, knowing they were disturbing and self-defeating. 

Sometimes he would go outside for long walks by himself, saying he needed to clear his head, but Sara would worry that on these walks he would only obsess and beat down on himself more. Every minute he was gone she would imagine him throwing himself in front of a car or his frail body collapsing from exhaustion. 

And he seemed constantly on edge. 

One morning while he was cleaning the kitchen Sara asked him, “Hey Michael, can you make sure to get to the grocery store today? We’re running out of food, so here’s a list—“

“I’m cleaning this filthy kitchen right now, are you even going to THANK me for that?! Oh no, because I didn’t get our fucking groceries soon enough, well FUCK—“

“Michael, Michael, okay, thank you for cleaning the kitchen. I really appreciate it,” Sara interrupted.

Michael took a deep breath, looking down in embarrassment. Clearly he didn’t mean to get so angry. “I’m sorry Sara. Thank you. I’ll get the groceries today, I promise,” Michael told her, pulling the grocery list from her hands. “You know what? The kitchen can wait, you need your groceries.”

Sara watched Michael silently cursing himself for yelling at her. “Michael, seriously, you don’t have to do it right now. The store might be a little overstimulating right now, you sure you’re not too vulnerable right now?” 

“I’m fine, Sara,” he said. “I’m gonna go get these groceries.” 

Michael went about his usual routine, scanning every shelf of every isle to make sure he never had to turn his cart around and come back. Shopping was a fast and easy process, until he got to the checkout line, where he stood packed closely between two other customers. 

He felt the man behind him brush his elbow against Michael’s waist. 

“Hey, can you give me some space, man?” Michael asked the man. 

“Sure,” the man said, jokingly taking a step closer to Michael, his lower arms making contact with Michael’s torso.   
“I said GET AWAY FROM ME!” Michael shouted as he pushed a fist towards the stranger’s face, knocking him hard in the nose. 

Barely a second passed before Michael was pushed to the ground by a security guard at least a hundred pounds heavier. Michael felt his cheekbone smash the hard floor as his hands were grabbed violently and cuffed behind him. He kicked impulsively before his ankles, too, were bound with plastic ties before he was carried out to a police car. 

Michael spent that night curled up in a holding cell at the police station, whimpering and wailing without sleep. In the morning his cell was unlocked and he was guided out to meet Sara, who would take him home. 

When they climbed into the car and the doors were shut, Sara shouted, “For christ’s sake Michael, you’re gonna end up back in jail!” 

“I can’t go back to jail,” Michael cried hysterically. “Is there another option? It was a goddamn mistake, I just…I just lot it for a min—“

“Michael, they dropped the charges,” Sara stated calmly. 

“What?” he paused for a second, confused.

“The victim was barely hurt. He didn’t feel it necessary to have you prosecuted.”

Michael smiled a little, before admitting with a hint of self-deprecating humor, “I guess they don’t want to go after a mentally unstable, scrawny, white guy.”

Sara’s disposition remained serious. “But Michael, you will end up in jail again—if not the hospital—if you don’t get help. This can’t keep happening.” She placed her end at the back of his neck, circling her thumb on the top of his spine. 

“I know,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I know.”

“I got a referral for a therapist from the hospital,” Sara told him. “I think we need to make you an appointment.” 

Michael nodded in agreement.


	9. Talking About It

Michael’s new therapist was a woman, which he appreciated as his attackers in Ogygia had all been male and he had difficultly trusting men. Her name was Dr. Sylvia Brown, and she was small and had short bleach-blond hair and glasses.

She sat on a red faux-leather armchair as Michael sat across from her on a couch. Michael wrapped himself tightly in the fuzzy white blanket she had in her office. It swallowed his delicate body, giving himself some sense of security as he ventured into a recollection of the darkest moments of his life. 

Dr. Brown wasn’t much for small talk. They introduced themselves, and Dr. Brown asked Michael how he was feel, to which Michael softly replied, “I’m okay.” 

They went over the basics of his background, how he had spent the past decade in and out of prisons and faked his death and became estranged from his wife and unborn child. When he mentioned that he had been abused in prison back in Yemen, Dr. Brown stopped him as she noticed his affect change. 

“Michael, I know this might be hard to talk about, but can you tell me what happened to you when you were imprisoned in Yemen?”

Michael shivered. He had barely mentioned any details to Dr. Parsons back in the hospital. At that point he was too vulnerable, his goal was simply to leave the hospital not wanting to kill himself. Now that he had achieved that goal, he had come to the stark realization that unless he dealt with the trauma, there wasn’t much hope of him living a decent life. 

“Okay,” Michael said, inhaling deeply. “I had been in Ogygia for three days, and I tried to escape.”

Michael remembered climbing to the roof of the prison structure when he was caught under a bright light, surrounded with guns pointed at him. He panicked, but stayed still as a guard pushed him to the ground and tied his wrists behind him. 

He was escorted down to the lowest level of the prison, where no light could enter, and thrown into a tiny dark room, barely larger than his arm span, barricaded shut with a large metal door. 

Seconds after the door was closed another guard entered the room. “You think you can come to our country, spread your evil, then escape our prison within a WEEK of being here? I don’t think so,” the guard said, jabbing a strong fist to Michael’s ribcage. Michael winced in pain as he heard something crack. 

“You don’t understand,” Michael said, holding back tears. “I—“

The guard threw another punch and then grabbed Michael’s neck between his thick hands. “Shut up, I don’t care what you have to say.” 

I’m going to die today, Michael thought as he felt himself suffocating, attempting to gasp for air and wriggle out of the guards grip. The choke only got tighter until the guard let go, Michael on the verge of unconsciousness. 

The guard turned around to open the door and then stopped. “One more thing,” he said. Before Michael could blink the guard shoved a knife into his stomach and ripped it back out, Michael screaming in pain as blood poured out. “Woops,” the guard said as he left.

Michael cried in agony as he watched blood drain from his belly, pushing his hand down on the wound to stop the bleeding only to soak his own hand in blood. 

The large door began to open again, and Michael shook and continued to cry as another figure slipped into the room with him. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” the man said. “Just a medic. I heard you injured yourself. Be careful.”

Michael knew not to say anything, so he just nodded his head as his wound was cleaned and dressed. They gave him pills for the pain, which he appreciated, but they didn’t help the mental agony. The constant fear that someone would come in again and hurt him. 

As it turned out, the living nightmare had just begun. For the following four years Michael was locked in that same room all by himself. He was rarely given food or water, and he felt himself rot away inside the cell. His once strong build wasted away as his clothes became loose and his bones showed prominently through his fragile skin. He was filthy, as he was only very occasionally given water and a sponge to clean himself, and his clothes were never replaced. 

But the days were he was left alone, even if with no food or water, were the better ones. Even if they did bring food, the guards rarely missed a chance to beat Michael when they entered his cell. 

He became well acquainted with the whip, as his back, chest, and stomach were covered with scars from lashes. Sometimes they would come in with hot metal and press it onto his flesh until it bubbled and bled and Michael screamed in pain. “This is for supplying guns to the terrorists, you criminal piece of shit,” they would say.

And any time Michael mustered up the courage to try to defend himself, to tell the truth, worse punishment would follow. Once his head was pushed into a bucket full of water and the next thing he remembered was waking up lying on the floor of the cell. 

By the time he was removed from solitary, he hardly recognized himself anymore. He was terrified and fragile inside and out. His shirt was stained with blood and dirt but he could not bring himself to take it off. He could not stand to see his chest and his ribs and his stomach, covered with scars and fresh slices and bruises burns. I’m ruined, he thought to himself. I might as well be dead, just as I’ve convinced my family. I’m worthless now.

Dr. Brown looked at Michael with sadness and empathy, seeing the scared, vulnerable boy alive in this weakened but nevertheless handsome man. “Do you still believe you’re worthless?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Michael replied.


	10. Wholesome Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael's healing process is beginning! Yes, it's riddled with angst for the whole Scofield family, but they're healing together nevertheless.

It was only two days after his first therapy session with Dr. Brown that Michael realized he needed to start changing his physical habits if he wanted his life back. 

Michael had been feeling awfully weak and nearly fainted several times during the past week, and decided to go to the doctor’s office. 

A nurse took his height and weight before taking him into a room to do the rest of his vitals and ask a couple questions. 

“Have you been eating properly?” The nurse asked him, a tall woman with dark hair and glasses. 

“Not really,” Michael mumbled honestly. “I’m not really hungry.”

She scribbled some notes onto her clipboard before asking Michael to lift his shirt so she could apply the stethoscope. 

He nervously flipped up the fabric of his light blue tee shirt, revealing his stomach, completely covered with scars. 

“What happened?” She asked him, touching the cold metal to his chest

“Oh, uh, I got injured a couple times overseas,” he replied vaguely. 

“Fighting for our country?”

“Something like that,” he stated softly. 

The nurse looked at him puzzled, dropping the subject before telling him, “I think we’re done here. The doctor will be in shortly.” 

A short, stocky but strong looking bald man walked into the room about ten minutes later. “I’m Dr. Smith,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Michael,” Michael replied, firmly exchanging grips with Dr. Smith. 

The doctor looked down at his clipboard. “129 pounds at 6’1 with a resting heart rate of 48 beats per minute and blood pressure 75/45. And you say you don’t eat much. Mr. Scofield, are you trying to kill yourself?”

Michael nearly dropped his jaw when Dr. Smith asked the question, almost becoming angry, but he withheld any argument, because Michael himself was startled to hear of his stats. He knew he didn’t eat enough, he knew he was too thin, he knew that his nutrition and hydration habits were subpar. But the numbers were much lower than Michael had anticipated or hoped for, and he began to understand why Sara and Linc might have been so pressuring when it came to his health habits. 

“No,” Michael said. “I mean, I’m not trying to kill myself, I just don’t feel like eating. I don’t feel like doing much of anything anymore. I know it’s a problem, I’ve started going to therapy, there’s a lot I realize I need to address.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Smith assured him. “But you also need to understand that taking proper care of yourself is necessary for your mental health. And your physical health of course—hell, at this point if I were you, I’d be worried about your organs beginning to shut down from a lack of nutrition. This is serious, Michael. If you really care about your life, you need to start paying attention to your health.” 

Michael looked down, ashamed but in agreement, and softly replied, “Okay”. 

He and Sara went out to Italian food that night, with Lincoln at home watching their son. Michael ordered Shrimp scampi. Sara was happy to watch him eat the whole thing without complaining, garlic bread included. 

“Sara, can I be honest with you?” Michael asked her seriously. 

“Of course, baby.”

“You’re the reason I’m alive. And I feel like I can never pay you back for that,” he said melancholically. 

“Michael,” Sara said, clasping his hand as she stared into his piercing blue eyes. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m just happy to see you doing better.”

And for the first time, Michael felt right about what she was saying. He WAS doing better. Sure, one therapy session and a wakeup call about his health hadn’t changed everything in an instant, but he was on the path to getting his life back. For the first time in a long time, Michael believed his life might be worth living.


	11. Finding Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter, but I wanted to make sure to post because I haven't been as active as usual lately, sorry! Do not be worried, I will not abandon this story before it's finished! We're getting closer to the end, but I have a couple more plot points in store, so hang on!

Weeks passed and Sara was grateful that Michael was healing. She was grateful that her son was healing. She, too, was healing. 

Michael’s look and affect changed. He gained some weight, and looked even more handsome as his clothes fit him well. He smiled more and cried less, and he stopped having episodes of anger. Sara was amazed to see such a tortured soul finally able to recover. 

He attended therapy every week, and each time he opened up more. He had been so scared that talking about what had happened to him would simply reopen old wounds, and it did, but it also gave them a chance to heal. They hadn’t been healing before. And the more he and Dr. Brown talked, the less they talked about Michael’s past—the more they were able to talk about his future. A future he thought he had lost. 

“What do you want from life, Michael?” Dr. Brown asked him in one of their sessions. 

Michael’s eyes rested their gaze on the carpet as he pondered the question. “I just want to be free,” he replied authentically. “I don’t want to run anymore. I just want to be Sara’s husband and Mike’s father.” 

“Look around, Michael,” Dr. Brown said. “You’re not in prison anymore. Since you left you’re mind has continued to play tricks on you, making you feel like you are. Do you feel free now?”

“Freer than I did before I started coming here,” Michael admitted. “Sara was right that I needed therapy.” 

“You’ve been through a lot Michael. Many people wouldn’t have survived what you’ve been through. You don’t give yourself enough credit for that.” 

She sounded just like Sara. “I appreciate that,” he said. He looked up at the clock. Their hour together was over. 

“Take care of yourself tonight, Michael,” Dr. Brown told him. 

“I will,” he said as he left.

That night, Michael ate a full dinner. He read to Mikey and put him to bed. And then he walked into his own bedroom to see his beautiful Sara half naked, her lacey black bra sliding off her breasts and she stood in her underwear next to the bed. 

“Take your shirt off,” she said both lovingly and directly. The healthier Michael got, the sexier his wife became to him. 

Michael undid the top few buttons of his shirt before slipping the whole thing over his head. God, he looked good, Sara thought. Not only had he put some healthy weight back on, but he had started working out with Lincoln, getting some muscle definition back to his still very slender but beautiful body. Michael seemed less self-conscious about the scarring on his torso now, which made sex less awkward and more pleasurable.

They removed the rest of their close and slid under the covers, their bodies feeling warm and fuzzy as they made love. 

After their bodies broke apart, Sara grasped Michael’s hand strongly, and whispered, “Don’t you every try to leave us again.” 

Tears rolled down Michael’s cheeks. He heard her. He wanted, still, to wail about how sorry he was and how he had let her down, but therapy had taught him that he had apologized enough, and that wasn’t what Sara needed to hear. 

“I won’t,” Michael replied. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Sara rolled her head onto Michael’s pounding heart and, hands still clasped, they fell asleep.


	12. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recovery, from anything, usually isn't linear. There are ups and downs for Michael and family...which you will see in this chapter. The question is...what will happen next?! Keep reading :)

They were eating all together at the dinner table—Michael, Sara, and little Mike. It was mac and cheese, Mikey’s favorite. They were laughing, talking and scarfing down their food when there was a sudden pounding on the door. 

Michael dismissed himself politely as he headed towards the door, the pounding continuing, getting louder. 

Two big, tall male police officers stood outside of the door. Before Michael could say a word he was grabbed by the shoulders, pushed on the door and down onto the concrete of the sidewalk, cuffed and thrown into the backseat of a cruiser, an officer sitting next to him. 

Sara and Mikey had been screaming after him, but were warned to stay inside the house. 

He didn’t even know why they had arrested him. This is was surely illegal. His rights were being violated.

When he opened his mouth to talk to the officers he felt his neck choke as a gag was forced into his mouth. 

The officer sitting next to him pulled out a knife, and as Michael prepared for the blade to sink into his sit, he instead felt his shirt be cut off, ripped off his body. His torso was bare and vulnerable; he felt humiliated with his scars out for the officer to see. 

Just as the officer thrust the knife towards the bare flesh of Michael’s stomach, as Michael prepared for the sharp pain, he instead felt a warm hand touch his belly. 

“Michael,” Sara said calmly.

Michael blinked and looked around. He was not in a cop car. He was in his bed, lying next to Sara.

“Nightmare?” Sara asked.

Michael didn’t respond. He looked down at his chest and stomach, the gnarly scarring illuminated by moonlight. He cried. 

Sara wrapped an arm around his neck as she lay beside him, the other stroking his chest and stomach as she repeated, “You’re okay, Michael. I love you.” 

He wasn’t just scared, he was embarrassed. Suddenly, the thoughts that had been under control for the past few weeks were out of control again. 

I’m worthless, he thought. Sara and Mike’s lives were better without me. I’m a piece of shit. I might as well died. They should have just let me rot in prison. I’m useless. I don’t belong here. I want out. I just want to die. 

Michael rolled away from Sara’s hands and out of bed, making his way towards the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and quietly opened the drawer under the sink.

He reached into the drawer and pulled out the bottle of sedatives his doctor had prescribed him. The prescription was just refilled a day ago, so it was nearly full. He could swallow the whole thing and, just like that, maybe he’d be gone. 

He pulled out the bottle and twisted open the cap, dumping the capsules into his hand, massaging them in the flesh of his palm. 

He moved his hand slowly towards his mouth when he recalled that, just a few hours earlier, Sara had told him, “Don’t you ever try to leave us again.”

He had made a promise. Was it a promise worth keeping? 

Suddenly, he heard a knock on the bathroom door. “Michael, is everything alright?” Sara shouted through the door. 

“Yeah, sorry, be right out,” Michael shoved the pills back into the bottle and put it back in the drawer. 

And moments later, again, they were asleep, Sara’s head on Michael’s chest.


	13. A Shoulder to Cry On

He kept it in. 

Sara knew the nightmares hadn’t disappeared, because he talked in his sleep and his body jolted, but when she tried to talk to him about it, he would brush it off and change the subject.

Some nights he would just keep himself awake so he wouldn’t have the nightmares, which took a toll on his physical health. He had thick bags under his eyes and had trouble keeping weight on. He made sure to sit down for three meals a day but struggled to finish them.

Therapy had put an end to “angry Michael”, and for that, Sara was grateful. She wanted to believe he was doing better, but there were telltale signs that his demons were still eating away at him. 

Michael had always been quiet and a little shy, but not like this. His smiles were faint and inauthentic. He spoke quietly and tired easily. Even during sex he was withdrawn and became fatigued quickly, giving way to another sleepless night. 

“Michael, is something wrong?” Sara asked one morning as he twirled his spoon around in a cup of yogurt, staring aimlessly at his sliver of a reflection in the silver utensil’s handle. 

“Oh, uh, no, sorry,” Michael replied, forcing the spoon into his mouth as he contracted his throat to swallow. “Just got distracted by the spoon. You know, LLI.” 

But something WAS wrong. Inside he was a wreck. He wanted to die. 

But, thank god for therapy. Every week he reminded himself that he would see Dr. Brown in just a couple days—not a week went by without him seeing her. He always felt better after therapy. It was what he needed to get through another week. 

“Dr. Brown, hi, it’s so good to see you,” Michael said with relief as he darted towards the soft couch. He held his pants up as he noticed them sliding down his hipbones. 

“You look like you’ve lost weight, Michael,” Dr. Brown said sternly. “I’m worried about you.”

Michael sat down puzzled. “Worried about me? I’ve been doing exactly what I’ve been told to do! I come to therapy, I haven’t killed myself, I eat when I can get myself too, sure I’m not perfect but—“ 

“Can I ask you something?” Dr. Brown interrupted his escalation.   
Michael nodded submissively, taking a deep breath.

“How are you doing outside of these rooms? Do you talk to your wife? Do she know when you’re struggling?”

“Yeah, I think Sara knows.” 

“But you don’t talk about it.” 

“No,” Michael admitted. “I don’t want to bring her into this.”

“But she's a part of this, Michael. She’s a part of your support system, your recovery. I’m a licensed professional but I’m not going to be coming to your house when you need a shoulder to cry on.” 

I don’t need a shoulder to cry on, Michael thought. 

And then he burst into tears.


	14. Honest Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the loooong break! Had some final exams to study for/finish before I returned home for break with my family! And the holiday is a busy, busy time for me. But...we're back in business! Thanks for reading, and I assure you that you can expect more updates soon! The Scofields are slowly healing...

He didn’t know how to tell her. He didn’t know what to tell her…what was there to tell? That he had still constantly been thinking of different ways to kill himself, that the only reason he hadn’t was because he felt guilty leaving his wife and son again? 

Sara walked into the kitchen that evening to find Michael standing there lost in thought, a sad look on his face. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

That question. It was always that question with her. And usually, his answer was “no, I’m fine”. He thought about repeating those words again. And then he remembered his conversation with Dr. Brown. 

“Yes,” Michael said, sighing, as tears welled in his eyes.

“Oh, baby, come talk to me, what’s wrong,” Sara said, resting her hands on his neck as she pulled his head down to meet her own. 

“Everything,” he balled, without stopping to think. God, I’m a fucking child, he told himself. “I know you and Mikey were glad to have me come back, now you have a husband and he has a father but…look at me! You deserve so much better!! I was sorry I tried to kill myself because I didn’t want to abandon you again, but the more I think about it, the more I think that the brief pain you’ll experience when I die will be better than a lifetime of living with the wreck of a person I’ve become!!!” He gasped, nearly hyperventilating as he inhaled and exhaled quickly and sharply.

“Deep breaths, Michael,” Sara said. “Michael, I know you’re struggling. You’re allowed to struggle, I’m not here to tell you how to feel.” She paused. Now she was starting to cry too. “But I want…I want you to know, that even if loving you is complicated, even difficult sometimes, the pain losing you would be felt forever. For me and for Mikey. He loves you. I love you.” 

Michael wiped his tears and nodded his head, shaking but calming a little as Sara reached her arms out to embrace him. He let her hold him. His fragile body surrendered into her arms.

“I have to go, uh, to the bathroom,” Michael said sickly as he darted towards the hallway restroom. He felt so vulnerable he was nauseous, sharing his deepest fears and insecurities with the woman he had married, loved, and slept next to every night. He leaned over the toilet bowl and emptied his stomach, panic overtaking him as he choked. 

Sara knocked on the bathroom door. “You okay, honey?” he heard her ask softly.

He took a deep breath in and out, finally allowing air into his lungs. He flushed the toilet and weakly stumbled to the door, opening it and staring at his beautiful wife through tired eyes. “I think I had a panic attack. I just…I don’t like talking about this stuff. I’m sorry I had to throw up, that was disgusting.”

Sara laughed forgivingly. “Don’t worry about it, I’m glad you made it to the toilet. This is gonna take some getting used to, talking to me about everything. Not that you need to tell me everything, just, you know, when you need my help.”  
“Thanks,” Michael replied, giving her a hint of a smile as she placed her palm gently on the small of his back, leaning into his chest as she embraced him. 

“Let’s get some water and food in you now,” Sara said. “It’s time you really start taking care of yourself.”


End file.
